


No one said there would be rain again

by ryttu3k



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It rains a lot in Lumiose City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one said there would be rain again

It's raining the day Augustine comes home.

Barely evening, the sky so black it seems like midnight, Lysandre is putting the finishing touches on the front counter display when the door swings open, drawing a rush of cold air and the roar of the downpour outside into the warmth and silence of the cafe. He straightens up, cloth in hand, ready to castigate the intruder and say that the cafe won't officially be open for another week, and then stops.

Augustine sweeps sopping wet black curls out of his eyes and smiles sadly. "Nice to see you too, mon ami."

Lysandre is in front of him before he can even think about moving, taking the suitcase from him, helping him off with the drenched coat. "What happened?" he asks softly, "I wasn't expecting you back from the Tower for months yet."

Augustine hesitates, and there are so many words left unsaid in the curve of his mouth. "It... wasn't for me," he finally says, the words forced and slow, and Lysandre can see that it's not just rainwater that dampens his cheeks, "I didn't have what it took."

Wordlessly, Lysandre leads him to one of the brand new bench seats, gently pushing on his shoulder to prompt him to sit, hurrying into the back room to get him a towel and to pour him a coffee, kept hot on the stove. Augustine accepts them quietly, sipping at good hot coffee (black with three sugars, wasn't it?), the towel draped around his shoulders like a shroud.

And then he crumples, a sigh like a sob pushing past his lips, and Lysandre wraps his arms around his friend, and holds tight while he weeps, and he closes his eyes and thanks the universe for bringing Augustine back to him.

 

It's raining the day Augustine decides to do something about it.

They're standing outside the laboratories, he and Lysandre, and he's practically bouncing in place, grinning ecstatically, because they're _his_ laboratories now, and he's no longer Doctor Sycamore but _Professor_ Sycamore, and Lysandre is smiling almost as broadly with his face bright with pride, and then there's a terrific crack of thunder and the rains start pouring down.

Lysandre curses and grabs his arm to pull him inside, but Augustine tugs his arm free with a grin. Laughing, he spreads his arms and lets himself get soaked, throwing his head back. Not even the sky can ruin this moment; nothing can diminish the fact that he got this position on his own.

"It's a congratulatory light show, Lysandre!" he calls joyfully over the rain, "Fireworks and an orchestra! Did you ever think I'd get this far?"

The look in Lysandre's eyes is suddenly intense enough that Augustine falters a little, caught by cerulean brighter than the lightning. "I had no doubt whatsoever that you would achieve it," he murmurs, the sound almost swallowed up by the downpour. "I have always known you are magnificent."

His hand is on Augustine's arm again, and this time he does not shake it off, acutely aware of the warmth of skin through his soaked shirt, the gentle pressure of Lysandre's fingertips, the searching look in his eyes.

"Y-your hair is a mess," he forces out, aware that the mood has changed into something else entirely. "It - look -"

He reaches up, runs his fingers through flame-coloured hair, the wet strands clinging to his fingers. Lysandre's grip has changed, it rests on his shoulder as Augustine's other hand drifts up, as he slides his fingers across one of Lysandre's cheekbones.

There is a tension between them, practically crackling (or perhaps that's the ozone from the lightning), and Augustine finally gives in and steps forward.

He suspects they actually both act at the same time, but it ultimately doesn't really matter who moved first, who first turned thought into action, because the end result is still the same, his hands tangled in Lysandre's hair, Lysandre's hands heavy on his shoulders, bodies pressed flush, kissing and laughing in the rain.

 

It's raining the day Lysandre makes his decision.

They have been out at dinner, he and Augustine, one of the nicer restaurants in Lumiose City. Lysandre is ill at ease; his intention had simply been to enjoy good food and good company, but the excess he has seen surrounding him has turned his stomach and spoilt his appetite.

Augustine has not noticed. He is as cheerful and as quick-witted and as joyous as ever, showing affection with a gentle bump of his foot against Lysandre's leg under the table, with a brush of warm fingertips across the back of Lysandre's hand. He beams like sunshine, like summer days, and Lysandre is hard-pressed to keep his mood from smothering him like a storm cloud.

It actually is raining by the time they leave the restaurant, the streets nearly empty and the cobbles gleaming under the streetlights. Hand in hand, they walk through the rain, Lysandre trying hard not to be irritated at the way rainwater is dripping down the back of his coat, allowing a smile to cross his lips as at Augustine's obvious enjoyment.

Passing one of the grand old houses that line the streets of the inner circle of Lumiose, music - piano and strings - filters out and mingles through the percussion of rainfall. In one movement, they stop.

"Dance with me," Lysandre murmurs, and takes Augustine's hands.

Perhaps he should feel self-conscious, dancing in the rain with his lover, their bodies moving as one and Augustine's storm-grey eyes bright and warm. Lysandre cannot look away, cannot stop himself from tracing the familiar terrain of Augustine's features with his eyes, noting the way the corners his lips curve up in a smile, the trio of freckles near the side of his nose, the carefully maintained stubble, the shadows under his eyes that speak of too many late nights and too many worries, and Lysandre feels ice trace his spine.

Augustine is sunshine, but the world conspires to cloud him over.

"Let's go home," Augustine whispers, and Lysandre realises abruptly that the music has come to an end, Augustine's body pressed against his own in a way that probably doesn't classify as dancing any more. "And let's get out of these wet clothes."

"And in to some dry ones?" Lysandre manages with a grin, forcing away the clouds.

Augustine's hands against his chest are like a firebrand. "Ah, now, I never said that," he murmurs with a suggestive smile, and takes Lysandre's hand again. It's warm, and soft, and gentle, and everything good in the world, like the sunlight he craves and will do anything in his power to protect. "Come on."

He follows. Because there is nothing else he can do, he follows.

 

It's a gorgeous, clear, sunny day when Lysandre announces his intention to destroy the world.

It's raining the day of Lysandre's funeral, and Augustine can't bring himself to be surprised.

 

It's raining the day Lysandre comes home.

Augustine is soaking wet, his shirt clinging to thin shoulders and narrow hips, hair in disarrayed damp curls, his stormy eyes sad and old and tired and wide in shock, his lips parted, his hands trembling as his nails cut crescents into his palms. Lysandre's good hand tightens around the cane; he feels as if, very abruptly, he needs to sit down.

At any rate, he almost drops the cane as Augustine flings himself into his arms, then draws back and punches him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise.

There's apologies and thank yous and pleas and grief and joy, and Lysandre is not sure whose lips they spill from. Perhaps both, perhaps it doesn't matter, because he knows he's hurt Augustine badly and he's the one person he could never bear to cause harm to, the one who his actions have hurt the most, and he knows that he's a monster and that Augustine has returned to him anyway, his face buried against the shoulder he had just punched, arms wound firmly around his waist, shaking and sobbing.

He had sworn to protect Augustine and had hurt him instead. He has failed to see how much Augustine protects him instead.

Lysandre lets the cane fall, lets Augustine be his rock, and raises his good hand to stroke dark curls.

There will be another day, and they can sort everything out then, to see what the ramifications are of Lysandre's own actions, to find a way to fix what he has done, to make amends, to put things right. There will be time to be the man Augustine believes he can be.

And right now, there is rain, and Augustine, and this moment, and it's good enough for now.

 

A new day is ahead, and the sun is shining.


End file.
